


The Woman's Room

by wishingforromance



Category: Silent Dancing, Woman Hollering Creek
Genre: Belonging, Gen, Home, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Independence, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingforromance/pseuds/wishingforromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She knew it was a Home,<br/>and she knew she was supposed to enter,<br/>the same way that, in a dream,<br/>even if one’s surroundings are unfamiliar<br/>there’s a feeling of belonging..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Woman's Room

She stopped in front of a  
puzzle of a house,  
sections painted in different shades  
and built with different materials  
that nonetheless came together to make a  
Home.  
And she knew it was definitely a Home.  
The sounds and smells marked it as such  
so that even if she had been standing in front of  
an office building,  
she would have known it for what it was;  
when the wind drifted towards her,  
it brought the sound of children’s laughter,  
the clang of pots and pans,  
the murmur of women talking,  
the smell of arroz con gandules  
and roasting pork.  
So yes, she knew it was a Home,  
and she knew she was supposed to enter,  
the same way that, in a dream,  
even if one’s surroundings are unfamiliar  
there’s a feeling of belonging,  
as though the strangeness is not strange at all,  
as though one has encountered this unfamiliar thing  
every day of one’s life. 

And so she knew to enter the puzzle of a house,  
or rather the puzzle of a Home,  
although the Home was not hers,  
the children not her own.  
She followed the sounds that had called to her  
on the wind,  
followed the laughter,  
followed the murmurs,  
followed the smells of a cooking dinner  
through the twists and the turns  
of the puzzle-turned-maze.  
She followed the Home sounds  
through a garden of orchids  
and finally arrived at what she thought  
was a living room.  
Except when she entered, she realized  
it was not a living room,  
but a royal court,  
complete with a rocking-chair throne  
and a Queen crowned with white hair,  
her family-subjects gathered in a circle around her,  
changing house into Home.

And then everything stopped.  
The children ceased their laughing.  
The murmurs quieted.  
The breeze blew in the other direction  
so that the smells of dinner  
no longer reached her.  
All eyes turned towards her.  
The Queen stood from the rocking-chair throne,  
lined eyes gazing at her with sorrow,  
searching until they landed on  
something behind her.  
She turned and found a child standing there.  
He clutched at her shirt,  
using her as a shield as he looked around.  
She reached out a hand to touch his head  
and saw bruises painted onto her wrist.  
She saw that her clothing wasn’t fit for court.  
Her pants were faded,  
Her shirt had holes,  
It was only just big enough to cover her stomach,  
swelled in pregnancy.  
The bruises continued up her arms.  
She was afraid to look at her face in a mirror.

The Woman Painted with Bruises looked up at the gathering in horror.  
Why did she come here?  
She didn’t belong.  
This was a Home  
and you could tell that from outside,  
from around the corner because of the sounds and the smells  
but she’d come  
and the sounds had stopped  
and the smells had been diverted  
and she wasn’t dressed for court  
and the Queen was looking at her  
with sorrow-filled eyes  
and so she backed away,  
realizing that people don’t live in dreams  
and that the Home was not hers  
and that she had a child who was not these children  
and that she most definitely did not belong.

But before she could  
make her exit,  
the Queen came up to her,  
placed a hand on her arm and  
told the Woman Painted with Bruises to follow.  
The Woman followed the Queen,  
her child attached to her shirt as they traveled  
back through the orchids  
and into the puzzle-maze  
until they reached the Queen’s chamber.  
And the chamber was…  
Empty.

Rather, not Empty,  
but empty of things the Woman  
had come to expect of a Queen’s room  
in a Home shared with a King.  
And so she looked around,  
confused,  
until finally she asked the Queen  
“Where are the King’s things?”

“This is not the King’s room,” the Queen replied.  
“And the court is not the King’s court.  
They’re mine; I claimed them for my own.  
This is what you need.  
A room all your own with a door that locks,  
where you can say who  
comes in and  
goes out.”

The Woman Painted with Bruises  
looked at the Queen,  
surprised.  
“I can’t get my own room,” she said.  
“How can I?  
I’ve never claimed anything in my life.  
I wouldn’t know where to start.”

The Queen took the Woman’s hands,  
covered in bruises,  
into her own,  
wrinkled with age.  
“But mamita,” she said.  
“Don’t you see?  
You’ve already started the claiming.  
You wouldn’t be here otherwise.  
You claimed yourself  
and your son  
the moment you stepped through my doors.  
Now, I’ve got rooms to spare.  
All that’s left is for you  
to claim one.”

The Woman had a Room.  
She was no longer in a dream,  
but still her child’s laughter  
rang out among the other children’s laughter,  
and the women’s murmurs  
solidified into conversations,  
and the smells wafting on the wind  
were the smells of her dinner,  
and the Woman had a Room—  
She was Home.


End file.
